


A Fever You Can't Sweat Out

by alessandralee



Category: Stitchers (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alessandralee/pseuds/alessandralee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cameron's got the flu, and Kirsten stops by the make sure he's got everything he needs to recover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fever You Can't Sweat Out

**Author's Note:**

> Someone requested fic of Kirsten taking care of a sick Cameron, so here it is.  
> This is also part ten of the 100 Ways to Say I Love You challenge, “Here, drink this.  You’ll feel better.”

It takes Kirsten a moment to juggle all the things in her arms so she can knock on the door, but eventually she manages.

“Go away,” she hears Cameron yell from inside the apartment, followed by a round of loud coughing.

“So you don’t want the soup, then?” she asks loudly enough for Cameron, and probably a few of his neighbors, to hear.

There’s a pause before the answer, “The door’s unlocked.”

Kirsten lets herself in and drops all of her stuff onto the kitchen table before following the sound of the TV into the living room.

“Unlocked doors in LA?” she teases. “You must be sicker than I thought.”

And he certainly is. Bundled up like a burrito in a blanket on the couch, Cameron only looks slightly better than he did that time they all contracted a virus that nearly killed them.

“Soup?” he asks weakly, looking up at her from the couch.

“Chicken noodle,” she tells him, surveying the rest of the room.

The TV is playing some sort of period drama, complete with corsets and a man in a white powdered wig. If Cameron didn’t look so pitiful, she’d definitely have a few comments about his movie selection. There’s a tissue box on the table of in front of him, and if the wastebasket full of balled up pink tissues is any indication, it’s probably running low. There’s also a large mug, empty but with a used tea bag lying next to it.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

“Spiffy,” Cameron replies. At least he’s not so sick that he’s lost his normal sarcasm. “Don’t I look it?”

Kirsten gives him a pity smiles for his lame joke, then leans over to clear the mug and tea bag off the table.

“Have you had anything to eat today?” she asks. He looks weak, but maybe he’s just that sick.

“Toast,” he responds. “But my throat feels like I swallowed a swarm of bees.”

“And to drink?” 

She’d googled appropriate treatment for the flu, and keeping hydrated was an important part of recovery.

“Tea. Listen Stretch,” he falls back on his favorite nickname for her, “I appreciate the concern, but you aren’t exactly the nursing type.”

Kirsten rests her hands on her hips as she speaks, “But I am the working type. And Maggie says no stitching without you, so I’m hear to make sure we get back to business as soon as possible.”

Now that sounds more like Kirsten.

“Good to know you care,” he says, the disappointment evident in his voice.

Cameron reaches for another tissue, blowing his already red nose and dropping it into the wastebasket.

Kirsten excuses herself to the kitchen, where she searches the cabinets for a can open and a small pot. Once she’s found them, she sets them next to her own supplies and grabs some of those purchases. She’ll get Cameron set up, then heat the soup.

When Cameron sees the sheer amount of stuff she’s brought with her (not including what she left in the kitchen), he laughs, “Did you raid the entire store?”

“Don’t be silly,” she tells him sincerely. “I stopped at the drugstore down the block. It’s huge; there’s plenty left for other sick people.”

“Aren’t you afraid of becoming one of those sick people?” He asks.

If she thinks his being sick makes it hard for her to stitch, wait until it’s her.

“I got my flu shot,” she tells him matter-of-factly. “I’ll be fine, but you need to replenish your electrolytes.” She places a large bottle of purple Gatorade on the table. “But first drink this. You’ll feel better.”

She hands him an old Poland Spring bottle, about three-quarters full with an amber liquid. The flu is clearly messing with Cameron’s head, because he wriggles his arms out from under his blanket, sits up, and drinks without asking any questions.

The grimace on his face as he takes the first sup shows that he regrets this decision.

“What is this?” he asks after he’s forced that gulp down his throat.

Kirsten shrugs, “Camille made it. She says it’s good for congestion.”

Cameron eyes the rest of the bottle with suspicion, but when he realizes that he really can breathe more easily now, he ventures a couple more sips.

“What have you got for me?” he asks, nodding towards everything Kirsten’s still holding.

One by one, Kirsten drops various bottles and packages onto the coffee table. She’s got Tylenol, Dayquil, Nyquil, throat lozenges (both with and without menthol), another bottle of Gatorade (this time blue), another box of tissues, and a bag of chocolate cookies that she knows Cameron likes.

“I left the soup and more tea bags in the kitchen,” she tells him.

Cameron nods, then reaches for the closest bottle of Gatorade. He struggles to open it, and eventually Kirsten takes it from his hands and unscrews the top.

“Thanks,” he sighs when she hands it back over.

“No problem,” she tells him, resting her hand against his forehead to check how hot it is.

“One-oh-one point five,” he says, too tired to notice what an uncharacteristic gesture that is, coming from Kirsten.

“Take the Tylenol,” she instructs, opening the childproof cap and pouring out two pills. “I’ll make lunch.”

Kirsten hunts through Cameron’s kitchen for bowls and spoons while the soup heats up on the stove. She manages to find what she’s looking for, as well as a tray to carry it all out on, loading it up with the soup, spoons, napkins and a sleeve of crackers she found in her search.

They’re both quiet as they eat, the movie a nice distraction that Kirsten can guess the ending of immediately.

Not too long after they finish their soup, Cameron dozes off. As soon as Kirsten notices, she turns off the TV and takes their dishes back into the kitchen.

Cameron drifts in and out of sleep for most of the day, but when he finally wakes up he’s surprised to find Kirsten still occupying her spot in one of his armchairs, her eyes focused on her laptop.

“What time is it?” he asks sleepily.

Kirsten checks the clock on her computer before replying, “6:12.”

Cameron drabs himself into a sitting position. He still feels awful, but it’s a much more manageable kind of awful.

“You could have left, you know,” he tells her. “With all these supplies,” he notices another bottle of Gatorade has materialized on the table, this time orange, “I think I’ll make it through the night.”

“You have better Wi-Fi,” Kirsten tells him. Part of her actually believes it’s the truth.

“Okay,” Cameron says. “Do you want to order dinner?”

“Took care of it,” Kirsten doesn’t look away from her computer for a few more clicks, then she closes it. “I thought egg drop soup would be good for you, but I wasn’t sure when you’d be up and that’s hard to reheat.”

Cameron wrinkles his nose. He’s all souped out for the day.

“So we’re having…” he asks.

“That fancy mac and cheese from the restaurant Linus took us too a few weeks ago,” she replies, setting the laptop down on the coffee table and getting to her feet.

Trust Linus to find a gem or a restaurant in Cameron’s own neighborhood.

Cameron uses the bathroom while Kirsten throws their food in the microwave. Maybe he should be concerned about how well she knows her way around his kitchen, but Cameron can’t be bothered right now. 

At some point while he was sleeping his child stopped and all the layers of clothing he’d put on started making him all sweaty. He splashes some water on his face in an attempt to cool down.

Dinner is delicious, or at least not bad as far Cameron’s muted taste buds are concerned. Still, it required a little more energy than Cameron has in him, and he’s asleep on the couch again soon after they’ve loaded the dishwasher.

He finally wakes up just after 5AM, disoriented in the gray haze of his living room until he remembers he never actually made it into his bed last night. As he climbs off the couch, he’s relieved to find he feels much better than he did yesterday. He’s still congested and a little achy, but he no longer feels like he was hit by a bus.

Kirsten, for some reason, is curled up on an armchair, covered by what looks like the comforter from Cameron’s bed.

He’s surprised she didn’t take the bus home last night. It wasn’t late enough that it should have been a problem.

He gently shakes her awake, remembering from past experience that waking up in unfamiliar surroundings can make Kirsten a bit testy.

“You really should have gone home,” he tells her once she’s up.

“I meant to,” she says.

The blanket she dragged from his room to the armchair indicates otherwise. He keeps that to himself.

“Well if you give me a few minutes to shower and change, we can stop for breakfast before I take you home to change for work,” Cameron says. “My treat.”

It’s the least he can do in exchange for all the stuff she brought him yesterday.

“You’re good to work?” she asks, a mixture of cautious and hopeful.

Cameron pauses to consider, “I’m definitely gonna need that Dayquil, but I think I can power through.”

The promise of getting actual work done is enough to perk Kirsten up, even though it’s still dark out. She lightly pushes Cameron in the direction of the bathroom.


End file.
